“I was born with it. My faerie mother has hair this color,” Lara told her.

“Oh.” Elin said no more.

Taking his brother aside, Adon said, “Is it possible you are enchanted, Vartan? Perhaps the faerie should be killed to protect you, to protect the Fiacre.”

“I am not ensorcelled, brother, and it was I who pursued Lara. Let there be no talk of murder, faerie or otherwise. I should not like to have to kill you. It would distress our good mother.” He clapped the younger man on the back. “Be glad for me, Adon! I am happy. Really, truly happy.”

As Lara stood by her stallion she murmured in Dasras’s ear, “No talking. You will frighten many if you do. We will speak together when I think it prudent. I have warned Noss to caution Sakari as well.”

The stallion nodded his head.

“Did they tell you I am now wed to the lord? He tricked me, but I am content for now, and you will have a warm barn for the winter.” Lara rubbed the animal’s muzzle.

“Good!” Dasras said softly that no one else hear him.

Lara chuckled, and mounted the horse.

They rode a full two days, and in late afternoon of the second day arrived at the Gathering place, which sat on the open plain. Tall columns stood in a circle, within which all discussions concerning the clan families would be held. Each clan family had a separate section in which to set up their camp. The fairgrounds and the place for animals and trading was in the very center of the locus. The Devyn were already there, for it was their task to direct the other clan families. The Fiacre, being the largest of them, was given the choicest site. The men set up their tents and the chieftain’s pavilion. A pen was erected for the cattle to be sold.

Before dark, the Felan arrived driving their sheep. They were followed by the Blathma, who brought milled grain, flowers, tubers and bulbs; and the Gitta, who came with finely milled flour, baskets of beautiful vegetables, pots of jams, conserves and savory relishes. Their encampments were set up, and the clan families began visiting back and forth. Still to come were the Aghy, the horse lords. There was concern among the chieftains as to whether the Tormod and the Piaras would come under the circumstances.

Vartan proudly introduced Lara to his contemporaries and their wives.

“She’s Hetarian,” said Rendor of the Felan.

“She is faerie,” said Floren of the Blathma.

“I am both,” Lara answered them. “I have a destiny that has taken me to the Forest Lords, the Shadow Princes and now to the Outlands.”

“Do you not think it odd she came to you now?” Torin of the Gitta demanded. He glared at Lara suspiciously. “What if she is a spy sent among us?”

“I am no spy,” Lara told him. “I was sold into slavery by my own father almost two years ago. I escaped, and have been wandering ever since. If you doubt my honesty then speak with Kaliq of the Shadow Princes. He knows my tale. You have but to call to him, and he will come.”

“You have gained yourself a most beautiful wife,” Rendor of the Felan said, clapping Vartan on the back heartily. “Welcome, Lara, daughter of Swiftsword, wife of Vartan of the Fiacre.”

“I thank you, my lord,” Lara responded prettily, and the suspicions of both Floren of the Blathma, and Torin of the Gitta were allayed. They grinned and kissed the bride vigorously, leaving Lara laughing and covered with blushes at their enthusiasm.

Afterward in the privacy of their pavilion Vartan told his family how his new wife had stood boldly forth before his fellow chieftains, and won them over.

“I hope they do not think your wife too bold, Brother Vartan,” Elin murmured, eyes lowered as she embroidered a piece of cloth in an oval frame.

“Our chieftains admire strong women, and a chieftain needs a strong wife,” Bera spoke up. She did not particularly like her younger son’s wife. Elin was a sly girl, and was always encouraging Adon to some new foolishness. Perhaps she would change with the advent of a child, Bera considered hopefully. In the meantime she had a fine daughter-in-law in Lara, and she would not allow anyone to offend her.

“I hardly consider speaking out to defend myself being bold, Elin. You were not there so you are not fit to judge,” Lara said. She already recognized an enemy in Elin.

Elin’s lips pressed together in an expression of disapproval, and she gave her husband an arch look, but she said nothing further.

In midmorning of the following day, the Aghy, led by their chieftain, Roan, arrived with a fine herd of horses. The Aghy were the second largest of the clan families. As soon as their encampment was set up and their animals corralled, Vartan took Lara to meet the Aghy. Roan was as tall as Vartan, with a head of flaming red hair and eyes so deep blue they appeared almost black. His gaze swept over Lara admiringly.

“My bride, Lara,” Vartan said with a grin. “Keep your hands to yourself, Roan of the Aghy. I would hate to cut them off, for how then would you ride your fine horses?”

“I would trap my mare between my thighs, and guide her thusly,” Roan replied wickedly, and he burst into laughter, flinging his arms about Vartan to embrace him.

Vartan was laughing, too. “Welcome to the Gathering, old friend!”

“Any sign of the Tormod or Piaras yet?” Roan asked.

Vartan shook his head. “Nay, not yet, but they do have the farthest distance to come,” and his eyes strayed to the purple mountains beyond the plain.

“We can wait another day or two for them,” Roan said. “The weather is perfect as it always is for the Gathering, and the longer we linger, the more horses I’ll sell,” he chuckled. He swung his gaze to Lara. “Do you ride, Lady?”

“I do,” she said.

“I have a sweet young mare who would suit you admirably,” Roan told her.

Vartan began to chortle, and when Roan looked questioningly at him he said to Lara, “Go and fetch Dasras so that the chieftain of the Aghy may see your mount.”

“At once, my lord,” Lara told him with a grin, and she hurried off. When she returned she was mounted upon the great golden stallion with the creamy mane and tail.

Roan’s mouth dropped open with his surprise. He looked Dasras over with a keen eye. “There is only one place where horses like this are raised. Only the Shadow Princes breed animals so fine. He is magnificent, Vartan.”

“Your praise should go to my wife, for he is hers, Roan,” Vartan replied.

The horse lord looked up at Lara again. “Lady, whatever you desire I will give you if you will sell me this animal.”

“He is not for sale, and never will be,” Lara told him. “He was a gift to me from Prince Kaliq. He has magic, and is part of my destiny.”

“I can well believe he has magic,” Roan said. “But imagine the colts he could sire, and think of the price they would bring! I cannot be content unless you sell him to me. I would even share the profits with you.” He ran an admiring hand over the horse.

Dasras drew away from the horse lord. “My mistress has already told you that I am not for sale, my lord,” he growled in his deep voice.

Roan’s eyes widened. “He talks!”

“But he is not supposed to frighten people,” Lara scolded Dasras.

The stallion turned his head to meet her look. “This man has a determined will, my lady. He must understand that I am indeed magic, and your words are not those of some dewy-eyed maiden.” Dasras now turned to the horse lord. “My mistress has a destiny, Lord Roan, and I am part of it. We cannot be separated.”

The horse lord nodded. “Yes,” he said, “I understand, but should you ever long for some pretty little mares…”

Dasras chuckled richly, bowing his head to touch his foreleg. “I shall certainly remember your most kind offer, my Lord Roan.”

“Does everyone know he talks?” Roan asked Lara.

“We have tried to keep his talents discreet,” she answered with a small smile, and then turning Dasras, rode back to the enclosure where the Fiacre horses were stabled.

“She is not one of us,” Roan said.

“Nay, she is a halfling. Hetarian and faerie,” Vartan said.

“How in the name of the Celestial Actuary did you ever find such a woman to wed?” Roan wanted to know.

“I found her wandering lost on the plain, although she insisted she was not lost,” Vartan said. “She and her companion, Noss, had been with the Shadow Princes. She comes from the City, where her father sold her into slavery to advance his position.”

“How typically Hetarian,” Roan replied scornfully. “They will sell anything they have of value to gain more. What are we going to do about this incursion they have made into the Outlands, Vartan?”

“I do not think we can make any decisions until we have heard from the Tormod and the Piaras. It is their territory that has been compromised, according to the Devyn, but whatever they may say to us, we cannot allow the Hetarians to eat away at our territory. This is but the first incursion, a test of our wills. They think because we have no centralized government that we can eventually be subjugated. If we do not stop them at the beginning it will be harder to stop them later on, I fear.”

Roan nodded in agreement. “Perhaps,” he said, “it is time for us to form a stronger union than we have had. We meet but once yearly here at the Gathering. Given what is happening, we may have to form a council of some sort to handle problems like this immediately, instead of waiting for the Gathering. The Devyn who visited me said that the Hetarians came into the Outlands in late winter. It is now midautumn.”

“The one in my hall did not know how long they had been in the Outlands. Why did not Petruso of the Piaras, or Imre of the Tormod send to us for help?” Vartan wondered.

“You know how proud the mountain clans are,” Roan replied. “We shall have to wait and see if they come to the Gathering.”

Three days later the chieftains they had been awaiting rode into the Gathering. There were no women or children with them, and but few riders traveled by their side. The yearly council was called for immediately, and the clan families gathered together within the ring of stone columns. Vartan, as head of the largest clan family, called for order, and when all was finally quiet he said, “We call upon Imre of the Tormod or Petruso of the Piaras to speak to us now. Which of you will tell us what is happening in the mountains? The tales brought to us by the Devyn are disconcerting, and never before has a clan family come to the Gathering without its women and children.”

“I will speak for the Tormod and the Piaras,” Imre said stepping forward. He was a tall, sinewy man whose ash-brown hair was streaked with silver. His gray eyes swept the gathering. “Just before spring Hetar invaded us, coming into our villages with their Crusader Knights. We were shocked, especially as they treated us as if we were savages. They slew our elders. They penned our women and children into enclosures like animals. They separated our young women, putting them into my house, where they use them for their pleasure. Our young boys are being forced into the mines at too young an age. New mines are being opened every month. They do not restore the land as we always have. Our mountain valleys are becoming a wasteland. They poison the waters with their refuse.”

“Why did you not send to us for help?” Vartan asked Imre. “This action was a clear violation of the ancient treaties that separate Hetar and the Outlands.”

“We were so shocked at first by what had happened,” Imre said, “that we lost the advantage. Petruso and I did manage to meet. We agreed that we had to escape, and reach the Gathering if we could not reach you before. It took weeks of planning, Vartan. The Crusader Knights are a cruel foe, and they were always on the watch, for several of our young men attempted to flee. They were caught and brutally tortured in our public squares before being killed. Our people were forced to watch, and they grew afraid. These few men who accompanied us did so at great risk. And we had to steal the horses we rode. We were pursued in the mountains, but as soon as we managed to reach the plain our captors fell back, and let us go. They could not afford to be caught so deep in the Outlands. When our identities are learned it is certain our families will suffer. We did discuss it with them, and our women agreed we must make the effort, and find help.”

Many of the women listening had begun to weep as Imre spoke.

Vartan turned to Petruso. “What have you to say, old friend?” he asked.

“He can no longer speak,” Imre said. “When he protested that Hetar was violating a centuries-old treaty, the Crusader Knights cut out his tongue.”

Petruso opened his mouth to show his fellow chieftains the stump of what had once been a most active appendage.